


strangeways, here we come

by redandgold



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: M/M, Soulmate AU, england nt - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-03
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-12-10 14:24:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11693538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redandgold/pseuds/redandgold
Summary: Even before he can pull away, Stevie's got the end of the tape and he's pulling it away to reveal six miniscule words inscribed on the skin, just under the veins.Get off me, you Scouse twat.Stevie looks at him, then down again, then back up."What thefuck?"





	strangeways, here we come

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SixPonderous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SixPonderous/gifts), [neyvenger (jjjat3am)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jjjat3am/gifts).



> a story of rivalries, disappointment, and emotionally oblivious old men, four months in the making.  
> I'm not a longfic writer by any means, and I wrote this in bits and pieces, so I apologise if it doesn't flow!  
> soulmate au for footballprompts / to fill the void of carraville soulmate aus  
> thank you to Gabby for holding my hand, continually encouraging me, and giving it a read through. <3  
> all my soulmate aus are always for one person, Julija, love you and hope this will be somewhat of a distraction <3
> 
> more notes at the end you KNOW YOU LOVE THEM 
> 
>  
> 
> [This song crops up a lot](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RJqimlFcJsM)

_The story is old, I know_  
_But it goes on_

_\- Last Night I Dreamt That Somebody Loved Me_ , The Smiths

 

 

 

 

"Have you got yours?" Stevie squints at Jamie's wrist, which has been deliberately wrapped up by so much sports tape that it looks like he broke it. 

"No," Jamie says defensively, shoving his hands behind his back. Stevie snorts and makes a sudden grab - even before he can pull away, Stevie's got the end of the tape and he's pulling it away to reveal six miniscule words inscribed on the skin, just under the veins.

_ Get off me, you Scouse twat. _

Stevie looks at him, then down again, then back up.

"What the  _ fuck _ ?"

Jamie's face has turned the same shade of red as his shirt and he yanks his arm out of Stevie's grasp. "Mam says I probably won't find mine in Liverpool," he mutters, his eyebrows meeting in a frown, the way he's prone to doing whenever he doesn't know what to think.

Stevie rolls his eyes. "You think?" 

"I dunno." Jamie looks like he's going to punch something. "Listen, maybe this soulmate lark is all bollocks anyway. There're all manners of people who'd call me a Scouse twat." 

"Dunno. Seems like you'd be..." Stevie wiggles his eyebrows. "... _ engaged _ in something." 

It's Jamie's turn to pass judgement. "What did you get, then?" he asks, changing the subject before it gets any more weird.

Stevie shows him, running his fingers over the uneven tattoo. " _ Hola, Steven _ . Doesn't sound very Scouse either, does it?"

"I told you, it's fucking bullshit," Jamie says, stuffing his hands back into his pockets and kicking viciously at the pebbles on the ground. "Scam for the ages." 

"Do your parents match?" Stevie asks. 

Jamie looks down. Digs his fingers into his palms and says, "Yeah." 

 

 

 

 

It's always a shitshow when they play the Mancs, even when it's reserves. Jamie's watching from the stands this time, still unfit for the game, even though his feet are aching to get into his boots. United are playing in red. It's the wrong red, he sniffs. There's only one red, and fuck if he's going to let those Manc wankers steal it.

One of the boys' heads snaps up then, without warning or reason. His eyes travel across to meet Jamie's and then he turns away, confused. Jamie frowns at the sudden contact, even though he has no idea what it means. Or even if it meant anything at all.

"Who's that fella?" he asks Stevie after the game. Stevie looks over and wrinkles his nose, just as the Manc looks their way and leans down to whisper to some tiny ginger excuse for a human being. 

"That's Neville," Stevie says dismissively. "The older Neville brother. Those annoying Mancs who're always out to get us." 

Even as Jamie is listening to Stevie, a sudden pang makes him swivel his head in Neville's direction. Neville is looking straight at him, and something scares him about it. "Did you say something?" he asks after tearing his gaze away.

Stevie looks at him like he's crazy. "No, why?" 

"Dunno. Thought I heard something about Scouse twats." 

"Fuck, you're even dumber than I thought," Stevie laughs. "Why would I call myself a Scouse twat?" 

And that's true, it is, except Jamie definitely did hear something. A strange almost-breathlessness, the way it rushed forward, the flatness of its vowels. But besides Stevie, there was no one else around to say it.

 

 

 

 

It doesn't happen again until the derby in '98. Jamie's almost forgotten about it, and hasn't given a thought to the soulmate thing either; he figures he can always find someone who calls bullshit on it as well and settle down like that. Stevie, meanwhile, spends an inappropriate amount of time looking up countries that say 'hola' instead of 'hello'.

"D'you think I should go to Spain?" he says once, sounding strange.

"Why, abandoning us already?" 

"No reason." But he frowns at his list still.

It's that same sort of feeling, Stevie's and the one at the training ground, that shudders into life somewhere within him when they visit Old Trafford. His first derby and it's awesome in the old sense of the word, imposing walls of red and shirts and we've-won-it leers that radiate from the stands. It isn't the pressure, though, that makes Jamie concede the first two goals. It's the feeling; the sharp jolts of suddenness that burn into him whenever United press forward. It happens especially when Scholes - that ginger midget who grew up - comes forward, bursting into the box when Neville puts in a cross. But it can't be anything, Jamie thinks at half time, trying to forget the fact that they're 2-0 down thanks to him. And it certainly can't be Scholes, who looks at everyone like he wants them to burst into flames. 

So Jamie tests it. The next time he sees Neville down the right on the overlap he moves into gear, already that feeling running through his fingertips. Scholes bears down on him but he's ready this time and he clatters into him like a bear all bruising and raw, winning the ball but destroying the man. He looks up to see Scholes's mouth open and - 

and nothing. Scholes gives him a sound of disgruntled protest and then he's on his feet again, chasing the ball. The feeling's gone, too. Jamie closes his eyes and spits onto the ground, his heart settling slowly back into place. 

 

 

 

 

"I can't believe you thought Paul Scholes was your soulmate," Stevie snickers in the dressing room when Jamie tells him. "Fucking hell. That twat's almost as much of a Manc bastard as they come. Practically the only person worse would have been Gary Fucking Neville."

"Yeah," Jamie agrees, though he still doesn't understand, still can't explain. He supposes this soulmate shit doesn't fall under that kind of category. For a moment he hates himself for being human.

 

 

 

 

He learns to work it off, after a while. Whenever the feeling comes back again - in the corners of hotel rooms in Manchester, or far-flung cities during England games - he goes out for a run, listens instead to the pounding of his feet, buries the sparks in a frown of concentration. It gets easier to handle. Stevie comes running with him sometimes, but it's somehow fine for him, like he isn't as bothered by the baseball bat that slugs Jamie in the stomach on occasion. 

"Maybe it's because you already know them and I don't know mine," Stevie says one day at lunch, sounding more philosophical than he usually is, which isn't proof of very much. Jamie snorts.

"Maybe I'll get hit by a bus and not have to deal with that shit," he counters, squinting into the depths of his spaghetti like it might tell him something. "Can we trade? I'd gladly take a Spanish-speaking sex god for a Scouse hater." 

Stevie shakes his head, smirking. "No chance, Carragher. When I find them we're going to have loud sex all of the time and you and your miserable anti-Scouse weasel can just yell at each other and wish you were us." 

Jamie forgets it in nightclubs, even though it's probably not the best way to forget something like that. There are plenty of pretty people and cheap beer to make him feel better about himself, although sometimes he catches the words on their wrists and it isn't at all what he first said to them.

 

 

 

 

And, of course. Football. 

Jamie revels in it, in the big occasion, in the howling and jeering and crunching tackle; he feels like he was born for this, blue-turned-red but no less proud of it, docker's scarf crimson around his neck. 

They come close. They drift. They come close again. Next year is always their year, until it isn't. The Mancs cover the trophy with their grubby little hands and Neville is always there, the worst of the lot, screaming and kissing his badge. 

Jamie's dreams are full of wiping that stupid little smirk off Neville's rat face, of kissing his own badge while the medal gleams around his neck. He hates him, he hates them, and the thought only drives him on.

 

 

 

 

Everyone's shouting. Jamie has the ball at his feet and he's thundering forward like a train off the rails, Stevie to his side, Harry in front asking for the ball. What if - he doesn't let himself hope, only  _ do  _ \- the United goal is right in front of him and maybe if he flicks his leg out, if he  _ shoots  _ \- 

_ Whump.  _ Something very solid goes smashing into him and he feels his knees give and scrape the ground, a tangle of arms and legs and shirts. The ball trundles on out of the pitch, clapped by the United support, and Jamie yanks his head around to deal with the fucking dickbag who ruined his chance at glory - 

"Fuck off, you Manc wanker!" 

"Get off me, you Scouse twat!" 

 

 

 

 

Everything freezes.

 

 

 

 

The game must still be going on, because football waits for no one, but Jamie can't hear anything. The referee is silent, Stevie's yelling but no sound is coming out. Neville blinks at him, his mouth falling open, the crease on his forehead deepening. 

Jamie breathes in. And then everything speeds up again; the referee has come over, the ball's waiting under the corner flag, Smicer's yelling at him to get back into position. The Anfield crowd fills his ears with their voices as he jogs back towards his own goal. It's as loud as the thumping in his chest, his pulse going far too fast, the words  _ Scouse twat  _ sounding off again and again like an alarm. Strange in its broad flatness, rushed breathlessness, in the half-arsed muzzy of the man who'd said it.

 

 

 

 

"No way," says Stevie, long, slow, like he can't believe he's breathing.

It's taken Jamie for bloody ever to work up the courage to say anything. He's tried to not-think about it, but it returns like a virus, Gary fucking Neville and those eyes that bore into his brain. He's written a list, for fuck's sake, of reasons this is wrong, of excuses like technical fuck-ups and simple mistakes, but none of them make sense. There's only one thing that does.

"You mean to tell me," Stevie raises a judgemental eyebrow, "that Gary Alexander Fucking Neville, Manc bastard Primero Uno, is your fucking soulmate?" 

Jamie wants to die.

"Oh, shit," Stevie bursts into an absolutely inappropriate series of giggles. "This is the funniest shit I've ever heard in my life. You've got to tell Michael this." 

"Fucking no," Jamie's eyes widen in abject horror. "You'll not tell a soul, Gerrard, or I'll two-foot you so hard you won't be able to stand up for weeks." 

"Still." Stevie's grinning like an idiot and Jamie has never wanted to punch him more. "This is so fucking hilarious. What're you going to do about it?" 

The shock has been so great that it hasn't even occurred to Jamie that he's going to have to do something about it. "Maybe if I don't do anything he'll just forget about it and fuck off," he suggests, leaning back and resting his head against the hard plastic. "I'm not going to talk to him, that's for fucking sure." 

Stevie gives him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. "Chin up," he says, although Jamie can tell he's just dying to text everyone he knows about it once Jamie leaves. "Dying a miserable, lonely bastard is still better than dating a Manc, eh?" 

"Yeah," Jamie says. Catches his breath in his throat and exhales slowly. Not just any Manc but the worst of the lot, fist pumping and Scouse hating, arrogance in spades. Bull fucking shit. "I've got lots of practice in that, anyhow." 

 

 

 

 

Scholes corners him the first time they go back on England duty after.

"So," he says.

It's just the one word, and Jamie knows he's never been one to talk much, but all the same it sends an ice cube down the back of his shirt. 

"Yeah?" he tries to play it off, shoves his hands in his pockets. 

Scholes makes an impatient noise and folds his arms. "Don't be a Joey Barton tackle, Carragher. You can't be that much of a twat as you make out if you two are soul fucking mates."

Stung by the suggestion that he would ever be anything Joey Barton-esque, Jamie almost goes for the banter instead, but forces himself to be serious for once. "How d'you know we are?" he says defensively. "Lots of people have called me a Scouse twat over the years." 

"And lots have called Gaz a Manc wanker," Scholes points out, "but none of them have had what he's said tattooed on their wrists as well." 

Jamie can see that he's struggling not to laugh, as if there was something terribly fucking funny about this situation. He'd punch him if there weren't witnesses.

"Neville can come and fucking talk to me about it himself." 

Scholes makes a face. 

"You know Gaz. He'd rather stab himself in the face than talk to a Scouser civilly." 

Now Jamie's pissed. "Are you suggesting I'd rather see him than he see me? Trust me, I hate Mancs more than he hates Scousers." 

"Listen," Scholes sighs. "I'm not going to get into your pigtail-pulling competitive lovemaking rituals. Just go talk to him, will you? You can be the bigger man here."

"I already am." Jamie tiptoes to emphasise his point. If looks could kill there'd currently be an inquiry into his unnatural death.

"Funny. I'm not the one with a archnemesis soulmate." 

He gives Jamie a nonchalant little wave and flits out of the room with as cheerful a disposition as Jamie's ever seen. As much as Jamie hates to admit it, he's right; Neville would much rather bottle up everything and die in a fiery explosion, but it'd kill Jamie equally as much not to say anything. Which means he's going to have to go and find Gary Neville and. Talk to him. About love. And shit. 

"Fucking hell," he exhales. Stevie has it so much easier.

 

 

 

 

He tries. No one can have a go at him for not trying. Before they're off to the stadium, Jamie gives Stevie a nudge and then makes for where Neville is sitting, waiting for Beckham. He sees Jamie coming and his first instinct is to look away immediately, because staring out of the window is going to be so much of a fucking help.

"Hello," says Jamie, already feeling like he wants to crawl away and die. He's been alive twenty five years and he doesn't think he's ever said 'hello' to a Manc, let alone Gary fucking Neville. 

Gary fucking soulmate Neville. Just thinking about it is barf-inducing.

The Manc isn't saying anything. Jamie sits down. 

"Listen," he says, digging his fingers into his palms so hard he thinks they might explode from sheer pressure or the like. "This thing. We gotta talk about it." 

"No," Neville says succinctly.

"I got threatened by a ginger dwarf about this shit, Neville. I'm going to sort this the fuck out, and then we're going to leave it." 

"No," Neville says again. He's very eloquent.

"Neville." Jamie is this close to ripping that measly moustache off his little rat face. "Fucking meet me halfway, will you? I don't want this either, but it isn't going to go away if we just ignore it." 

Neville turns to him, finally. His brows are knitted into a frown and Jamie realises he's never seen any other expression on his face. Always something to be angry about. Jamie supposes it's his Scouse presence that must so offend his sensibilities, wonders idly if he's capable of any other emotion.

"You're in his seat." 

Jamie turns around to find Beckham, quiet and apologetic, famous blonde mop slicked back and more handsome than Jamie could ever dream of being. 

He stands up.

 

 

 

 

They lose 2-3 to Denmark and then go home. That's how England is; this strange halfway house that they were proud of without ever knowing why. Come on England, and all that. Jamie's never sung the national anthem and wonders if that counts against him. Neither, he realises without quite noticing, does Neville. 

 

 

 

 

One of the perks of being especially good at football is wasting all your money on a house, so that's what Jamie does the moment he can afford it. No Beckingham Palace, but impressive enough. It's got a nice, big living room, bedroom upstairs, comfy sofa, the biggest telly he could find in St Johns. Stevie takes about five minutes to flop onto the sofa and claim it as his own.

"Jog off," Jamie whines, but Stevie invokes his rights as Liverpool captain and points to the unsubtle Liverpool crest just above the door to demand Total Loyalty and Unquestionable Obedience. 

"Now go make your captain a sandwich." 

"Fuck you." 

"I'm hungry." 

"At least put the telly on, then. Footy only. None of that Coronation Street bullshit." 

Jamie's culinary skills much resemble his laundry skills, in that they are non existent. He toasts four slices of bread before realising that to make grilled sandwiches you're probably supposed to put things in the bread before grilling them. 

"These are going to be shit sandwiches."

"S'all right, it's a shit match." 

When he finally turns them into some semblance of ham and cheese, Jamie trots them out triumphantly on a plate, only to lose his appetite when he finds out that the only game on telly is Manchester fucking United.

Stevie eats his sandwich anyway. "I don't know which is worse," he says.

"Shut up." 

"D'you want me to change the channel? Or d'you want to watch your boyfriend for a bit?" 

"I'll smack you." 

"Can I have your sandwich?" 

Jamie twists his lip and shoves the plate at Stevie, but his eyes are on the telly. Neville's got the ball and he's - playing well. Jamie's never watched a United game before, for obvious reasons, and when they play each other he's mostly focused on clattering everyone who isn't on his team. Of course he knows, vaguely, how they all play; fast, direct, down the wings. Has to know for countering purposes. He's never watched him like  _ this _ . 

Neville seems to know where the ball will be all the time. He's like a dog; he hounds, chases, marks, bullies them into giving up possession. More than that he plays like he believes. Like he's not even thinking about the win because he's expecting it. There's no complacency; it's just pure, single-tracked understanding that United are going to win because they were better. 

It's the way Jamie plays for Liverpool. 

 

 

 

 

To be fair, he hasn't thought about it much. Soulmates are an artificial construct of humanity, he'd read somewhere in one of those non-believer type articles. Just because someone had their first words on you didn't mean anything. Might have just been a joke played on them by whoever it was up there, a see-what-you-lot-think-this-is-supposed-to-mean. Nothing romantic about it at all. 

So it's fine. He doesn't have to like Gary Neville. He can continue to hate Gary Neville as much as he wants to. And that doesn't mean he'll end up old and broken and alone. It just means he'll have to find a workaround.

 

 

 

 

"All right, here's the team. David in goal. Ashley, Sol, John, Gary. Becks, Frank, Steven, Scholesy, and Michael and Wayne. Remember, we are playing for the semi finals here." 

It's the Euros. The Euros, and Jamie is sitting on the bench. Jamie Carragher, from Bootle. The thought makes him burst into a snort of laughter before he remembers who's actually playing and he stiffens up a bit. 

Neville, predictably, doesn't even look at him. Stevie gives him what might have been a pitying glance, if Jamie didn't know him well enough to tell that he still finds this immensely funny.

They play Portugal and get hit for six, the way they claw and fight and savage. Mickey pounces three minutes in and Neville sends in a cross that almost goes for another but Rooney gets his ankle nattered before the half hour and Jamie knows that's it. It's tense and tight all game, Jamie digging his fingers into the bench as he watches. Then Portugal score, six minutes from time, Postiga who's barely had a sniff of goal all season. All season.

Thirty eight years of hurt, or however the song goes. 

It's his country, whatever the case. Still his country. He longs to lift the golden trophy with St George wrapped around his shoulders, never more than he'd want to lift the premier league but almost as much of a dream. They play their hearts out and he looks around at the Nevilles and Beckhams and Campbells, wondering how they can stand it. Neville was there for '96 and '98 and '00. Jamie wouldn't blame the sod if he just gave up and walked straight off. 

But he doesn't. He digs his heels in, growls, goes again. Holds the fucking line, looks at the back four as if to dare them to hold it too.

Extra time. Portugal score once more. Lamps snatches it, swivels, back of the net. Two-all.

Fucking penalties. 

Jamie's heart is in his mouth, although he doesn't want to watch. Stevie's sat next to him on one side and Scholes is on the other. Neither of them say a word. Sven blinks, owlish, hands in his pockets. The other players are stood in line with arms around each other, Manc and Scouser all, except Neville who stands alone off the side, staring so hard at the goal it's like he's trying to break it.

Beckham misses. That's not the way this fairy tale thing is supposed to work. 

Jamie's eyes flick back and forth until his brain hurts, trying to keep track of the score.  _ If they miss, we're through - if we miss, they're through - if - _

In the end it's Darius Vassell who gives it up. They're all tired but Vassell is the one who sees his penalty saved, the one whose name will be struck up with the latest defeat in a very long line. 

Thirty eight years of hurt, or however the song goes.

 

 

 

 

But then. Neville.

Neville goes to Phil first. Holds him, lifts Phil's arm over his shoulder and keeps it there, says things Jamie can't hear. Jamie has never seen him like that, almost tender. Phil sinks into his embrace and listens like Neville's words are the only thing he can cling on to.

They're still milling about on the pitch. Neville goes to Beckham next, of course, puts an arm around his shoulder. Jamie remembers this is the first season they've played apart. Beckham turns away.

Stevie handles Liverpool like he's responsible for them, offering words and propping others up, but he handles England like he's responsible  _ to  _ them, taking it harder than anyone else. Now he's stood in the middle of the field, fingers wrapped up in his kit. Breath coming hard and sharp.

Jamie starts towards him, but Neville's already there. Leans down, offers a hand to Stevie, who looks up and takes it. Pulls him into a hug. Jamie knows that they've known each other a while, but he'd never thought something like this might happen, Gary Hates Scousers Neville and all. 

It's kind of - well. He doesn't know. Didn't know that he could do anything other than scream and bite. Jamie shoves his hands in his pockets and meets Neville's eyes just once, past Stevie's shoulder. Neville holds his gaze a long time. Then Mickey pulls on his shirt and Jamie allows himself to be led away. 

 

 

 

 

He feel like he can't let it go just like that, so in the airport he stands up and heads towards the United lads. Stevie watches him and doesn't say anything.

The five of them are sat there in silence. They all are, to be fair. Jamie pauses in front of Neville, who looks up; there's the same sharpness in his eyes but it's faded away some, like he isn't spoiling for a fight.

"Thanks," Jamie says. Waves his hands in the air a bit pointlessly. "For Stevie. He takes it hard." 

Neville pauses. The rest of them are looking at him like he might explode anytime soon. 

"No problem," he says finally. "S'all England, and that." 

Jamie nods, tilts his head, sticks his hands in his pockets. It's not all that much of a conversation, but it isn't a clawing-eyes-out thing either. Progress, maybe. Stevie grins at him when he gets back and Jamie flips him off.  
  


 

 

 

 

Or not progress. 

 

 

 

 

They play each other again in September and it's the same old vicious, biting stuff that makes Jamie love and hate derbies equally. Neville doesn't see people, he just sees Liverpool. The devil itself. There's a story about dragons and dragon slaying.

Silvestre scores twice. Silvestre almost signed for them. Jamie feels the bitter aftertaste in his mouth, digs his teeth into his lip so that the blood covers it instead. Blood is red. Gary Neville is a red.

He needs that song to stop but it's stuck in his head, again and again, coming from the away fans in the stands, pounding in his brain, radiating from the man stood across him on the pitch. He hates Gary fucking Neville and everything that he stands for. He hates Manchester United. He wishes that they'd go away and fuck off. They're all Manc wankers, every last one of them. 

He hates, most of all, the way Neville's head still snaps up when he thinks that.

 

 

 

 

The dust settles. A lad named Xabier says  _ Hola, Steven _ and Stevie sinks into a cycle of waxing lyrical about his passes and playing moody Phil Collins song on the car stereo. It gets worse when they win the Champions' League, but they've won the Champions' League, so Jamie doesn't really give a fuck.

Night comes red, glorious, the trophy is almost too heavy for him, and the song is sweeter than he's ever heard it.  

Of course, the fact that the Mancs win shit all that year makes it even better. 

 

 

 

 

"Did you really kiss him?"

Stevie blinks, embarrassed. "Maybe." 

"It's on the fucking telly, mate." Jamie laughs and shoves him in the shoulder. "Nah, it's good. Happy for you." 

"I dunno if it's a thing yet, y'know." 

"You matched, yeah?" 

Stevie looks over to where the lads are training. Xabi catches his eye, gives him a small, sly smile, quickly goes back to the ball. "Yeah," Stevie says, meeting Jamie's eyes carefully.

Jamie rubs his fingers over the words on his wrist. Just because his best mate's got it doesn't mean that it's for everyone, he thinks. Could still be a mistake. Maybe he's just particularly sensitive when it's Neville who calls him a Scouse twat, purely because it's Mr. Manchester United and all that. Doesn't mean anything.

"I don't think they make mistakes, Carra." 

Stevie looks at him like he's sorry about it. Jamie shrugs. 

He's maybe going to say something else but Xabi says  _ Steven  _ and Stevie pushes himself off the bench, dopey grin plastered all over his face in a way that makes Jamie bite his lip and dig his hands into his pockets. 

There's Liverpool. There's football. They've won the Champions' League and he's the happiest man in the world.

 

 

 

 

 

They train at Melwood for the match against Uruguay and Jamie finds it the funniest fucking thing, the Manc having to suffer in Liverpool for an England game. He heard Neville had to get a police escort in after the humping thing and reasons that if he'd been a normal Scouse bastard he'd be trying to overturn his car, too.

To be fair, Neville seems a little lonely. It's not quite been the same since Scholes retired and Beckham left. He's quieter now, less likely to fight anyone and more likely to sit in his own corner, half turned-away from Beckham, who looks like he doesn't know how to fix it.

Not that Jamie knows. Not that Jamie cares.

He doesn't like staying in hotels in Liverpool, even though it's a team requirement. Much prefers his own bed. It's easier to sleep without knowing that there's a Manc in the room next to his. He wonders if Stevie told the manager about the soulmate bullshit, because there's no other reason why his and Neville's rooms would share a wall unless it was purely for the purpose of Winding Him Up.

The fact that Stevie's first response is 'I didn't talk to Becks' even before Jamie's asked anything only confirms his suspicions.

Sleeping early - sleeping at all - just isn't a thing for Jamie, so at midnight he flicks on the telly and in some kind of childish reaction drums the volume up. Algeria is playing Burkina Faso. It's a friendly but everyone's getting stuck in, and it's kind of entertaining to watch other people smash each other about.

There's an irritable pounding on the wall. Jamie looks up, grins, turns the volume up louder.

Another pounding. " _Sh_ _ ut up, Carragher, _ " floats muffled through the plaster. Sharing walls, Jamie thinks, is surprisingly satisfying and almost as good as getting to smash Neville about. Almost.

A thump, a curse, and then a sharp rap on his door. Jamie takes his time getting there, languidly dragging his heels across the thick carpet. Gary Neville is standing in the doorway, looking more pissed than Jamie remembers ever seeing him, and it is as glorious as it sounds.

"There's a fucking game tomorrow, Carragher," he hisses. "I'm trying to sleep." 

"That's nice." Jamie leans against the doorframe, folding his arms. He's five centimetres taller and milks it for all it's worth. Neville glares, but he has to look upwards to glare, and it is absolutely fucking hilarious. "Doesn't look like you're succeeding." 

"Because you're watching football. At midnight. And I can hear it through my wall." 

"It's not like you need beauty sleep." Jamie makes an exaggerated effort to peer into Neville's face. "Not that it'd help, really." 

"Carragher. I'm in no fucking mood. I need to sleep."

"Go to Beckham's room, then." 

Jamie knows as soon as he's said it that it was the wrong thing to bring up, but Neville stiffens and his shoulders get that much slighter. He opens his mouth, not sure what he's going to say, but even before that Neville has pushed past him into the room.

"What the fuck, Neville - " 

Gary Neville is on his bed. Gary Neville is on his bed, getting under the sheets. Admittedly he's more intent on making a mess than anything kinky, but it's a disturbing image that has absolutely no place in his head. Or his room. Or anywhere in the universe. At all.

"Where the fuck is the remote?" 

"It's not on the - " 

Jamie swears under his breath and scrambles onto the bed as well, the only thought in his mind the imperative need to save his sheets from Manc contamination. He reaches Neville under the blanket, gives him a right shove in the face, and Neville claws back wildly. Deals a punch to Jamie's jaw that Jamie just manages to duck out of. Jamie grabs his shoulder and clamps down hard. Neville throws him off and swings round with his other fist, going straight for Jamie's head. Jamie's schoolboy instincts kick in. He snaps his head down and seizes the off-balance that Neville finds himself in to rugby tackle him down on the bed. Neville glares up at him from where he's pinned, breathing hard. 

Jamie blinks. Maybe this isn't about the remote anymore. Neville looks like he's desperately trying to convince himself that he doesn't care about something he doesn't want to acknowledge. Jamie turns his eyes to Neville's wrist, can just barely make out the words  _ Manc wanker  _ under the dim hotel light, feels a jolt up his own arm.

"Gary," he says, quiet, so conscious of the name on his tongue that he almost can't force it out. Under his fingers Neville stops squirming. "The remote's on the table over there." 

He gets off Neville. It feels like he's burning up, like every single patch of skin is turning into smoke. Neville lies there silent. Only his chest moves imperceptibly. 

Jamie never wanted any of this bullshit anyway.

 

 

 

 

It takes a long time for Neville to sit up. He moves slowly, like he's made of glass, reaches over and jabs the volume down. Algeria are making a break for it and Soulama only just manages to palm it away.

"You couldn't sleep?" Neville asks, careful, deliberate. Jamie glances over at him. They're sitting side by side now, and there's a bright red mark on Neville's cheek where Jamie's hand landed.

"Yeah," he shrugs. "I don't, much. Watch football instead." 

"Even - " Neville squints at the telly. "Algeria against Burkina Faso?" 

He sounds a little incredulous and Jamie laughs. "Yeah, why not? S'football and that, innit." 

"Who's the better team?" 

"Algeria are at the moment, though that's not saying much given their form and standing. Someone like Bougherra, yeah; proper player for them but only makes it at Crewe." 

Neville keeps giving him searching sidelong glances and Jamie feels a little uncomfortable. "You watch the Championship too?" 

"And the lower leagues. Sometimes non-league. Sometimes games in the States, Asia, South America, when it gets bad." 

"Christ. Shouldn't you see someone about this?" 

"Not until you see someone about that ugly mug of yours." 

Neville is prodded into a sharp, startled laugh, and Jamie grins inadvertently. He's not heard Neville laugh before. Never even seen him smile before, really, sort of bursting and unexpected, like a cackle of delight when a kid kicked a ball.

"Don't give me the name of your bloke. I've not seen any improvement for ages." 

"So there's been improvement, then?" 

"Kind of like signing El Hadji Diouf to improve your attack. Not much help."

Jamie's laughing and he doesn't know why. Neville's laughing and he doesn't know why. Neville is propped up on his elbows, his legs stretched out on the bed, and he looks at Jamie again, squinting with a strange kind of intensity that makes Jamie shift.

"Why are Algeria playing better?" 

It's not the weirdest question he's ever been asked, but Jamie stares at him anyway. Neville stares back, his mouth pulled down in a frown and his brow knitted as if he's trying to work something out.

"You being serious?"

"Yeah, 'course. Why're they doing better?"

"Well - " Jamie obliges, for no reason except it's getting closer to one and he's just awfully tired of arguing with Neville all the time, and these ten minutes have been more of a relief than the last ten years. "They're tight at the back and all intent on making sure to stop Burkina Faso from playing, see. Every chance they get they close the ball down. They're compact, breaking things up, and then when they get possession they're pressing." 

Even as he talks he's aware of Neville falling quietly asleep next to him, nodding forward until his chin is tucked into his chest and his hands are limp by his side. He begins to slope dangerously close towards Jamie's end of the bed, and Jamie considers very seriously the implications should Stevie or someone burst into his room at that moment demanding Scouse wisdom or whatever it is Jamie had to offer.

In the end he decides that he doesn't have a lot to offer, anyway. He turns the telly off and sighs, settling against the headboard and closing his eyes. Neville's head lands on his shoulder with a quiet bump. If he can't see it, Jamie reasons, it's possible that it isn't happening. 

And it isn't like the weight of Neville's head on his shoulder is all that uncomfortable, but thankfully he falls asleep before he can come to terms with the implications of such things.

 

 

 

 

Jamie wakes up with a headache and a deep unsettling feeling in his stomach that something Very Bad happened last night. He yawns and runs a hand through his hair, turns, finds Gary Neville sound asleep with his arm draped unfortunately close to certain parts of Jamie that he would rather keep to himself.

It is a testament to his strength of character that he doesn't immediately start screaming.

Ever so gingerly, he eases out of Neville's embrace, yanks a shirt on, and scrambles out into the doorway where Stevie has his hand poised to knock. He raises an eyebrow at Jamie. 

"Aren't you coming for breakfast, you dump? You know we're playing tonight, yeah?" 

"Gary Neville's in my fucking room, Stevie," Jamie whispers, trying very hard to keep his voice from climbing several octaves in sheer panic. 

Stevie looks like he's been smacked in the face with a dead fish.

" _ What? _ " 

"Gary Neville." Jamie wrenches a despairing hand towards the unspeakable truth behind his door. "Is in my room." 

"Why is he in your room?" 

Stevie is trying very hard to understand. Jamie appreciates the sentiment. He's trying very hard to understand it himself.

"He came over to yell at me for putting the telly on and then we got into a fight and then we talked and then we fell asleep - " 

"Wait, wait, you fell asleep? Did you - sleep together?" 

"Just because we were in bed does not mean I slept with him - " 

" _ You were in bed _ ?" 

"Say it fucking louder for everyone, yeah, I don't think Sven heard you." Jamie exhales and drops the back of his head against the wall, burying his face in his hands. "I was just talking to him, y'know. Truce and that." 

"Why would the world's most Manc Manc and Scouse Scouser conduct a truce by  _ sleeping together _ ?" 

"One, what the fuck is 'Manc Manc', and two, I  _ did not  _ sleep with him, fuck's sake. Now what do I do?" 

"Leave him in there, maybe he'll spontaneously combust from embarrassment or something." 

Stevie gives Jamie a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. Jamie makes some kind of a low, keening wail into his hands. 

"It's not all bad, mate. He might not even remember it. Keeps saying he can't remember the last time we won the league and all that, eh?" 

Jamie can't believe he's slept next to someone whose only purpose is to slag Liverpool off. Breakfast is consumed in stony, wretched silence, and when Neville finally makes it into the dining hall, Jamie keeps his head down and pretends not to notice the red mark on his cheek.

 

 

 

 

Anfield welcomes, like the smell of nan's pea and chicken soup when you step into the home you hadn't known you'd missed. The Kop glows under the floodlights. Tonight they sing songs of England and tonight both their shirts are red, even if the numbers on their back gleam golden, reminding them of something they've never had. 

Forty years of hurt, or however the song goes.

 

 

 

 

They win this time, though. Jamie gets on after half an hour. Neville is already there, of course, armband around his bicep once Beckham goes off. They're a goal down but Crouchy heads one in and Neville jumps screaming onto him like it means the world. It's only a friendly, Jamie thinks, but he thinks it with the kind of exasperated fondness he treats Stevie smacking himself in the face after alcohol, and he doesn't know what that means. 

Joe Cole sends one swinging like a golf ball into the roof late on and they're all in the hug. Sweaty and breathless and yelling. The stands are sheer shimmering delight, and for once no one's throwing coins at Neville.

_ Gary.  _ Jamie scrunches up his face, but the damage is done. It's hard not to be on first-name terms with someone you haven't technically slept with but kind of did anyway.

 

 

 

 

There's a knock on the door around midnight. Jamie swings it open with a scowl, rebuttal already on his lips. "The volume wasn't even - "

Gary has his arms folded and he's staring at some invisible point past Jamie, jaw set resolutely in an irascible line. "You're watching football?" 

"Only a match of the day replay." Jamie stands aside to let Gary in, almost like it's natural, and Gary walks in and sits on the edge of the bed, almost like it's natural. "No hamburgers this time, eh, Neville? You'd have eaten all of them, anyhow." 

Gary scoffs. "You were shite." 

"Excuse me." Jamie sits next to him, dangles his legs off the edge. Their fingers are close but not touching. "I passed the ball to Joe. I got the assist-assist." 

"Please, no one ever gives a fuck about those. I must be the league's record-holder in assist-assists." 

"I think you've got that confused with twattiness." 

"At least it's not the own goal record, eh?" 

It's strangely comfortable, and that in itself makes the whole exercise uncomfortable. Like playing with matches only to realise you've set yourself on fire. Jamie shifts in his seat, discomfited. 

"Neville - " 

"What did you think of the game?" Gary interrupts. On the screen, Bent's just taken the worst header Jamie has ever seen anyone take. Jamie swallows. Any mention of words on wrists dies away.

"Decent. Thought we were the better team. Carrick played well, Joe was excellent down the left, Pete's first goal and all. We kept the ball, everything was tidy, even if you gave it away one too many times. Deserved to win by a bigger margin, probably. Good stuff for the world cup." 

This time Jamie stays awake long enough to register Gary's leaning into him, chin tucked in, lips pressed together, hand barely brushing his.

 

 

 

 

Jamie stays in Liverpool and Gary goes back to Manchester. They both come painfully, agonisingly close, but it's the South that takes it this time, Mourinho with his smug smile and ninety one points. Blue doesn't belong on the trophy, Jamie thinks. He's sure Gary's thinking the same.

 

 

 

  
  
"It's the World Cup." It's absolutely pointless, as a statement, but Jamie feels compelled to make it all the same. The  _ World Cup.  _ Surely there's something unbearably poetic about it being played in Germany that just means that they have to win.

"What would I do without me most observant mate?" Stevie huffs. Jamie is too excited to take any notice of him. 

"I don't care, Stevie. It's the World Cup and I might even play." 

"Hate to burst your bubble, Carradona, but there's a long list of people ahead of you in the pecking order." 

"I'll nobble them all," Jamie declares, sweeping his arm out dramatically and nearly succeeding in performing said action on an irate John Terry. Stevie does his best to stifle an inappropriate snigger. "I know all their weaknesses. Just need to find Rio a gym and he'll never come out. And send Ashley a suitcase of cash." 

"What about Neville?" Stevie asks, more than a little snide. Jamie follows his glance and sees Gary looking up at them, one hand wrapped around his suitcase. Beckham comes to his side and Gary starts, turns away. Jamie feels something stopper up in his chest.

"Give him a Liverpool 2004-05 season review DVD," he says. "He'll be too pissed to play for weeks." 

 

 

 

 

It's weak against Paraguay, it's tired against Paraguay, but the England fans are singing and they have to listen. Countries are not clubs. This sinks deeper than loyalty, at once more insular and more ubiquitous than Liverpool or United could ever be. There are little flags hung up in Sainsbury's, strangers with their arms round each other in pubs, the radios of an electronics store tuned in to Radio 5 Live. Come on England. Bandied about like a mantra, a swear word, a secret password offered by old hands who brace themselves for more disappointment with a nudge and a wink. England always - a host of words go here,  _ crash out _ ,  _ fuck up _ ,  _ lose _ , but - 

_ Believe  _ rises above them all. Maybe it's delusional. Maybe it's arrogant. Beckham takes a free kick that delights and astonishes the way his free kicks do and it ends up in the back of the net. Every four years St George goes back up and people who still remember '66 are bought a pint, and for every  _ we'll go out at the group stages  _ there's an underlying thread of  _ god help me, we might win this yet,  _ because what is hope if not alive?

Come on England. The cup awaits you and is yours.

 

 

 

 

Jamie does get his wish, as it turns out. But not in a way he would have expected. Not even in a way he would have wanted, if he had to be honest, even though his twenty-year-old self might have differed.

It happens in the middle of training. The day before Trinidad they've split up into two five-a-side games, and Jamie gasps and falls the same time Gary in the other group gasps and falls. He picks himself up immediately. Gary is still on the ground.

"Fuck," he hears Beckham say. 

There's an intermittent, stabbing pain in his calf. Jamie shakes it off and comes round to where everyone else is gathered, stood over Gary who's breathing shallow and has his eyes closed.

"What happened?" 

"Pulled something in his calf." 

"Oh, shit." 

"Looks serious."

"Where's the physio?" 

"Someone get a stretcher." 

Jamie doesn't say anything. Just kneels down and peers at Gary, his expression unreadable. Beckham leans down too and holds Jamie's gaze for the longest of times. Jamie finds himself wondering if Gary's ever told him about what his wrist says, if he's ever seen it.

Wonders if it means anything, now. Still.

 

 

 

 

Sven asks for him an hour later and Jamie walks in, swallows, not sure what to expect. He's not a right-back, but then again no one is. He supposes people just kind of got used to relying on ever-present Gary that getting a back-up hadn't even occurred to them.

He realises that he's kind of gotten used to ever-present Gary, too, in a way that maybe he shouldn't have. It's an England thing, he tells himself sternly. That's all.

"As you know, Gary is injured." Sven steeples his fingers. "He's probably going to be out for all of the group stages and past that, if we are realistic. Can you play at right back?"

"Badly," Jamie quips, thinks it's something Gary would've been proud of. Sven suppresses a smile.

"You start tomorrow." Sven gestures a hand that implies dismissal. Jamie slinks out of his office, hardly daring to look back, just in case everything vanishes like a mirage. He's starting tomorrow. He's starting. Tomorrow. The World Cup.  _ The World Cup. _

Because someone else isn't, but that shouldn't be his problem. And it isn't his problem. It isn't something he should be worrying about at all.

 

 

 

 

 

"Becks told me you're playing." 

"Uh huh."

"That's us fucked, then." 

Gary manages a grin and Jamie matches it, just to humour him. He knows it must be killing him inside; golden generation, best right back and all that crap, out of his second world cup in four years through no fault of his own. 

"Eh, Carragher. Watch the man, not the ball. Don't be afraid to get stuck in, not that you ever are. And mind your positional sense. It barely exists, but you might as well mind it." 

"I don't need to be  _ mothered _ , Neville." 

"You need a great deal of mothering, Carragher. I bet you can't even put your socks on yourself." 

"It's just 'cause my feet are big. You know what they say about men with big feet." 

That's an awfully precarious thing to say in the state that they're in, and Jamie hates the way it grates on his ears and is left hanging between them. Gary takes a long breath and it's a while before he speaks again.

"Tell me how it goes, yeah?" 

Jamie smiles, tight-lipped. There's something hurting in his chest. 

"'Course. Wouldn't miss a chance for you to slag me off, now would I." 

 

 

 

 

It's Trinidad and Tobago, who aren't exactly world beaters. Still they labour under the weight of an expectant nation who pins their hopes on past glories. Jamie fizzes one thirty five yards out in the second minute for fun, knowing that he'll get as close as half of the strikers today, and he isn't wrong. Mickey misses, then Crouchy. Lamps fizzes another wide and Jamie can take some pride in that he's done about as well as England's best goalscoring midfielder.

Not that there's much to be proud of, nil-nil at half time. Jamie blocks off John's effort and that's about as much as he contributes to anything. In the dressing room he tries his best to remember what Gary would do, all those quick bombing runs and beautifully-put crosses into the box.

Maybe not  _ beautiful _ ; maybe  _ decent _ . That's more than kind.

So he goes for it, just sprints down the right as fast as he can, drawing a look from Beckham who's used to another face and another number. Crouchy almost gets to the end of one of the crosses and almost scores, and how would  _ that  _ have been, an assist at the World Cup; but it's England, and England is always what might have been rather than what is.

In the end he comes off on the hour and they win two-nil with some late, inconsequential goals. It isn't much. But England has three more points and Jamie has a glossy England cap in his drawer. A start, perhaps, in more ways than one.

 

 

 

 

"I almost fell asleep, to be honest. Is that what you feel like on the bench all the time?" 

"Fuck off, Neville, I get my minutes." 

"You'd have been sat there today if I hadn't been out." 

"Not my fault you're ancient." 

"Have some respect for your elders." 

"Respect has to be earned, old man."

"Like England caps?" 

 

 

 

 

 

Sweden next, Sweden with their menacing Ibrahimovics and Larssons and Ljungbergs. Gary's on the sidelines again and this time Jamie looks at him just after the anthem, sees his brow knitted with a determination almost as if he was the one playing.  _ All right, you Manc wanker _ , he thinks, takes satisfaction in watching Gary snap towards him at the phrase and roll his eyes.  _ I'll show you fucking determined. _

And he does. Tries, again and again, to fit his new role, those insistent runs down the right, the pulling back, the positioning. England tries. That's all they ever seem to do. Mickey goes off within three minutes with what looks like an awful, awful snap of the knee, and Jamie's stomach gives a sickening lurch at the screams. 

England tries and it's nearly not enough, it's always nearly not enough. Joe scores but Sweden respond after the break, a swinging corner that no one could deal with. Larsson smacks the ball against Jamie's arm and Jamie watches in horrific slow motion as it sails towards his own goal, hit as sweetly as Larsson himself would have done, Robinson scrambling to get to it but still so very far away -

It cannons off the crossbar in the end, and Stevie spares their blushes with one from his locker of magnificent headers. Rises above, knocks it in, races towards the red and white with a smile on his face all burning. They're screaming in the stands. Jamie screams too, and it's dented by an eighty-ninth minute equaliser but it isn't dead. That's the thing with them, isn't it; they pick themselves up, brush themselves down, march on. Round of sixteen. Come on England.

 

 

 

 

 

"You were knackered by the end, weren't you? Must be hard, playing ninety minutes when you're not used to it."

"How's that subs bench coming along? Your ego's learnt nothing, I see?" 

"My ego will be fine if you keep playing that badly." 

It's almost a ritual, really, Gary coming into Jamie's room and the highlight-watching and the banter. Now he leaves before they fall asleep, but Jamie doesn't mind that. It's the sheer presence of Gary he values. Smart and calm and witty enough to keep him on his toes. Keep him grounded. Without someone to call him out on his performances he'd have floated into the clouds by now.

Jamie doesn't tell Stevie and he doubts Gary tells Beckham. There's nothing much to tell, anyway; just two blokes having a debrief. As friends. Not soulmates, not a Manc and a Scouser. Just friends.

Jamie is horrified with himself.

 

 

 

 

 

It's Hargreaves who deputises for the game against Ecuador, and so Jamie finds himself on the bench besides Gary for the first time in his life. He's not actually watched a game with him in real time so it's strange, this, to feel tangibly like they were on the same side, supporting the same team. There's a difference that Jamie doesn't know how to describe.

Come on England. Come on. The quarter finals loom large. 

The game is slow going, arduous, like watching a half-dead athlete crawl to the finish of a marathon. It's not that they're ever under genuine threat, except they can't get a way  _ through _ . Beckham comes to their rescue again in the end. Swings another of his expert free kicks into the corner, pumps his hands in the air. 

That's the only moment of the game Jamie affords a side-glance at Gary. Gary's got half a smile creeping across his face, his mouth set like he's going to say something. His hair is curling up at the back of his ears and his fringe is a mess, cut in no fashion at all. Still the scummy, rat-faced Manc wanker Jamie's known for years. 

Jamie half-expects it, but Gary doesn't turn, doesn't catch his eye and see him staring and smile knowingly. Just keeps his focus entirely on the game. Wrinkled brow and digging his fist into his palm. Jamie leaves for a cameo appearance and gets booked for his troubles, a time-wasting yellow card that Gary's sure to take the mick out of later.

_ Later _ , like he's come to expect it, and it's disquieting to no end. There's something else that expects and he pins his hopes on that instead. He lasts till the whistle and then his knees give out, England are in the quarters, three lions on his shirt, Jules Rimet still gleaming.

 

 

 

 

 

"How's the calf?"

"A'right. Physio reckons I could start against Portugal." 

"Kicking me out, then? Fuck you." 

"We both know you were just - I dunno - warming the grass for me." 

Gary looks mortified the moment he's said it and Jamie chokes.

" _ Warming the grass _ ? Jesus, Neville, you need to work on your banter. Seriously." 

"I don't have to. Just need to say 'own goal', don't I?" 

Jamie laughs. On the screen, the English players are tumbling into a giant pile-on while the camera pans out to the stands, a sea of red and white with their arms in the air, waiting for the next great adventure. England have never gone out in the round of sixteen but it's England, so every step has to be treated as an achievement. 

"Do you think we have a shot?" Gary asks. He's never said  _ we  _ to Jamie before, not without following it up with  _ are going to fucking destroy you  _ when they're walking off the pitch at half time. 

"Dunno. Portugal haven't been impressive, but neither have we." 

"Neither have you. I've been injured, I can't be responsible." 

"I'll injure you again if you keep slagging me off, you twat." 

Gary rolls himself off the bed and heads for the door, grinning. Something seizes in Jamie's chest and he almost asks him to stay, but then Gary is gone and the door swings shut with a gentle click. 

 

 

 

 

What more can you say about emotion that hasn't already been written in sport?

 

 

 

 

 

Gary returns to the starting lineup and Jamie stays on the bench. He'd ordinarily be ticked off, but there are bigger, greater things to worry about here. Brazil or France await. England expects. 

It's only a game, it's only ninety minutes. It is and it isn't. A ball bounces off Gary and Tiago almost swipes it in, but he kicks it wrong. Three minutes later Gary has one of his decent - not beautiful - long balls in the box and Lampard cuts it back, except there's no one there to score. Anyone's game. Jamie has heard that phrase so many times it's lost all meaning, but that's what football is, isn't it. No such thing as favourites; form guides and player profiles peel away.

Red-shirt-white-shirt-dribble-tackle-over-the-bar. Jamie loses all sense of time after the half-hour, counting his minutes in shots made and opportunities missed. Stevie gets nutmegged minute. Gary races down the line minute. Beckham pings it into the wall minute. 

(There's Terry gets booked minute too, which might clear him out a place in the semis, but that's too far away to think about, too wistful to dream of.)

Half-time; they troop back into the dressing room, Sven wrings his hands and tells them that they're better than this. Jamie glances around. Everyone's face is hard and stone cold. A desperation lingers in the air that can only mean bad things. 

But the crowd outside are singing the anthem and Hargreaves is running his legs off and Rooney is taking potshots and surely,  _ surely  _ -

Beckham comes off. Gary's playing on Jamie's side now and he sees a twinge in his face as he receives the armband, but otherwise he doesn't let anything else past. Jamie gives Beckham's hand a tap as he comes onto the bench; it seems the least he could do.

Rooney goes off, 1998 all over again. Jamie bites the inside of his cheek and the blood tastes bitter. 

Miscue-mishit-fluffed-the-shot. Lampard first, then Cole, and England are the better team now, now of all games, so why aren't they scoring - 

Extra time. Sweat is dripping off Stevie's kit and it reminds Jamie somewhat poetically of Gazza's tears. Gary is stern, unrelenting, playing the part of captain perfectly. Somewhere in between of it all Jamie realises he's come to think of him as his captain too.

Sven calls his name; Jamie barely hears, except he finds his feet on the ground and he's stripping off. They can win this yet, he keeps hearing the words in his head, like a promise, but the goal does not come. He slaps Lennon's hands and jogs on, Gary giving him a look as he runs past. On the big screen there's an England fan who's leaning forward, two bright red crosses on her cheeks, and Jamie can almost see the aching spelt out in words.

Forty years of hurt.

 

 

 

 

_ 1-0 _

_ 1-1 _

_ 2-1 _

 

 

 

 

Jamie read about penalties a long time ago, when he was first starting out.

He knows that you're supposed to place the ball on the mark on the ground, and then stand behind it. He knows that the goalkeeper is supposed to be on the goal line, and that everyone else should have cleared out. He knows that you're allowed to pull as stupid a run-up as you want. 

What he forgets is the whistle. His heart is thumping in his chest as he scores, but Pereira grins smugly at him and rolls the ball back. Second chances are there for a reason, and he sets his shoulders, steadily ignoring the weight of a country on them. Steadily ignoring how Lampard and Stevie, much better, much more experienced, have missed, and what chance does he have. There is a story about dragons and dragon slaying. The ball is pale amidst the grass, and it could have been Melwood, it could have been Jamie's backyard in Bootle. He takes a breath. Drops his head. The whistle goes.

 

 

 

 

This is how the story ends: England lose on penalties. 

There is the scapegoat: Rooney. There is the salvaging of dignity: Churchillian defence. Eriksson smiles like a man who has been awake too long. "Yes, you say it was a Churchill performance," he says. "But we're out of the tournament." 

Everyone will say that they saw it coming, but that's only half the truth. Journalists vindicated in their pessimistic predictions write the fallout with another kind of article in mind. The electronics stores switch off their radios, and four more years go by.

 

 

 

 

 

On the pitch, Jamie blocks out the screaming and the red shirts that could have been them. Stevie is slumped in the grass and Jamie wants to go over and haul him up, sob into his shirt, but his legs have given way and he's so tired he can't even stand. There's fucking nothing to be tired about, all he did was play two minutes and miss a pen. 

Terry bends down nearby. Lampard, on his haunches, hangs his head. Rio's on his knee, one hand clutching the blades of grass like some kind of a prayer. There is a story, and it is the same. Everyone ends up flat on the ground, exhausted and not knowing what to do about it. 

Gary's standing. Jamie notices this only peripherally. Blue and yellow is still wrapped around his bicep and he stands with his arms akimbo, head down, jaw clenched. He's been playing longer than Jamie has. Has lost more than Jamie has. Jamie looks up at him, the captain going down with his ship. Tall and quiet, waiting for greatness that will not come.

Then he breathes out slow and walks towards Rio, giving him a pat on the shoulder. A hand to pull him up. One by one he sends them down the tunnel, a quick word or a brief hold, arm around Lampard's neck, settled on Beckham's waist. He wraps his fingers around Stevie's palm and stands him up. Jamie watches him coming, almost like in slow motion, like everything else falls away.

Gary takes his hand and pulls him into a hug. They've talked football and fought but never touched like this, intimate almost, a study in the sharing of grief. Jamie digs his fingers into Gary's back and presses his face into Gary's hair, and Gary twists to lean against Jamie's chest, saying nothing in the moment.

It seems to last for ages but really it's no time at all. Then Gary lets him go and Jamie stumbles towards the tunnel, Stevie already waiting for him at the opening with blankness written into his face. He tilts his head back towards the pitch when Jamie draws close. "Look."

Jamie looks. Gary is shaking the hands of all of the Portuguese players, a man who's been knocked out of five major championships, forcing himself forwards and congratulating the winners without a trace of bitterness. Calmness in his face, quiet in his features, a sense of stoic sportsmanship in every shake. It's class. It's what makes captains, really. It's being a bigger person than Jamie could have ever been. 

Jamie still doesn't know what it is; he doesn't  _ love  _ Gary Neville, because that is far too strong a word to be bandying about. He's not sure if he admires or respects him, because at the end of the day he's still a dirty Manc and there's that. And he certainly still doesn't think that the words on their wrists mean anything.

But he doesn't hate him. He knows that much, at least, whatever that's supposed to mean.

 

 

 

 

There's a knock on the door. Jamie pads towards it, eyes already bright, and his smile flickers when it's Stevie waiting outside. Stevie stares at him searchingly but Jamie clamps his face shut and presses his lips together. 

They go out to town and have a quiet drink somewhere, faces obscured by the anonymity that comes with losing. They don't speak very much. Jamie knows that Stevie takes it harder than he does, so he pushes the glass of gin across the table and watches. 

When they stagger back to the hotel at two in the morning, Stevie blissfully drunk off his tits, Jamie bundles him into his room and walks back to his own, giving the door besides his only the briefest of glances.

 

 

 

 

 

And that's that.

 

 

 

 

The hug and Jamie's absence on the last night seem to have done something, even though Jamie can't quite figure what. The next time they go back on England duty Gary purposely avoids him, edging past in the cafeteria with a shoulder, looking down and not meeting his eyes when Jamie gets subbed on. When they play each other in March, United sitting comfortably on top of the table, and O'Shea nabs a bullshit winner even after Scholes got sent off, Neville screams down the length of the pitch and Jamie looks away, bitter. 

It's not something that would have worked out anyway, he reasons. Even if a part of him still thinks  _ maybe _ . 

The Mancs are playing Bolton and the lads are kicking back at Stevie's before Villa, Sky on the telly and Xabi in the kitchen meticulously chopping onions. Jamie's helping him look over the pasta when there's a shout from outside.

"Oi, Carra." 

Jamie puts the spatula down and goes to lean against the door frame. Gary Neville is lying on the ground, face in the grass, physios around him. Just last week Jamie had seen him strutting around Anfield like a peacock. Some of the lads on the sofa are shaking their heads.

"Few weeks, that," Stevie says. As Gary hobbles off the pitch Jamie feels a lightning bolt tear right through his ankle. His leg buckles and he just manages to stop himself from falling, catching the ridge of the frame to pull himself up.

"Longer than that," he says, jaw tight.

 

 

 

 

Gary doesn't show up for international duty. The fans are back and Terry has the armband this time, Terry who scores the goal that puts them one-up against Brazil. The stadium is massive. The arch in the sky is iconic in its own way but Jamie still remembers the twin towers, the cramped stands, the thirty-nine steps for winners that Jamie never got to climb. 

They gave him the number two shirt for this game and he fits in at right-back, but it all feels like some kind of charade. That isn't his number, nor is it his place. Somewhere in Manchester there's a bloke with a crocked ankle watching Jamie do his job. 

Not even good enough to replace Gary fucking Neville. When Brazil score the equaliser in injury time Jamie slumps over, his legs already shaking from the all the running he's not used to, head spinning as Diego pumps the air with delight. He's done, he tells Stevie later in the dressing room. Done. Shirts will only be red from now on. It's isn't that the story doesn't end; it's that the story keeps ending. He's stopped counting the years.

 

 

 

 

It hits home properly when they play the Mancs at Anfield and Gary is there, standing on the pitch before the game in a suit, crutches running down the sides of his legs. His tie is blue and everything is wrong. He looks around like he's searching for something, some kind of a miracle. It's been months. 

Jamie watches him walk off the pitch, slow and deliberate, brow creased with a resignation Jamie's come to expect of injured sportsmen. He never thought he'd see it on Gary Neville, who makes derbies as much as he or Stevie make them. Never thought he'd play against United and not have to deal with that fucking offside arm of his, or the long throws Jamie can now admit are beautiful. 

They lose one-nil to a shite goal and Jamie's heart drops straight past his knees.  _ Fuck them _ , he thinks, curling his fists, swallowing as he strides towards the tunnel.  _ Manc wankers. _

He thinks it even before he remembers.

Gary looks up. Catches Jamie's eye, forces a grin. 

 

 

 

 

Stevie corners him one day and jams a piece of paper into his hand. "Don't ask me how I got it," he says, pained. "I had to endure several rounds of suspicious ginger questioning." 

Jamie unfolds the crumpled slip and reads off a phone number and an address. "You fucking serious?" 

"Mate, you're cut up about it, it's fucking obvious." 

Jamie shoves the paper into his pocket and scowls. 

"Eh, Carradonna," Xabi says from behind them, because of course Xabi is around. Jamie shakes his head and turns to face him. 

"What?" 

"You remember 2005? Lampard slides in, breaks my ankle?" 

"'Course." It's hard to forget, that, the crunch, Xabi screaming. Xabi tilts his head and looks at Jamie in that bloody annoying way of his. 

"You remember what Steven did?" 

Stevie flushes, but Jamie remembers that also. Doubling over, gripping his ankle while Jamie yelled at the ref. It'd not been more than two seconds. When they'd gone to visit Xabi in the hospital after Stevie had winced, hard. 

"I saw you fall in the kitchen that day," Xabi says.

 

 

 

  
  
Gary picks up with a half-yawned  _ hello _ . Jamie hasn't heard that voice properly in ages and has to pause to regroup.

"BT is showing Chicago versus Houston." 

Gary takes an even longer time to reply. Jamie's starting to think he's already hung up and the phone just hasn't made note of it yet when he says, "what number's that?" 

Jamie scoffs. "You don't know what number BT is? Do you just watch MUTV all day, then?" 

"Jesus, Carragher, all right, I'll find it." Gary grumbles and there's the sound of the telly being switched on. Jamie hears Paddy Crerand's voice before Gary changes the channel and rolls his eyes. 

"Heard that."

"Shut up, you twat. It's past midnight and I was sleeping." 

"What for? It's not like you have training tomorrow." 

It's the kind of banter he'd use for friends and it slips out before he realises that Gary isn't quite a friend, isn't someone Jamie knows well enough to make fun of in good faith. He's just starting to beat his head on the counter when Gary laughs. 

"Like you do. You were well shocking against us last week, no amount of training can cure that." 

"It was a lucky goal, fuck off." 

"You called me, you muppet. Want to watch the game or not?" 

 

 

 

 

Jamie doesn't know why he's doing it, really. He calls Gary every week, chasing him up on some stupid MLS or J-League or Campeonato Brasileiro Série A game, and they trade barbs and opinions until one of them falls asleep. He supposes he hopes that it reminds Gary that football still exists. That injuries are forever. This is his version of shaking the hands of Portuguese players, the very least he can do for an old foe.

Or maybe it's selfish. Maybe Jamie just wants to hear Gary's voice without its poison, removed from the context of snarling seething Manc abusing Scousers and settling into thoughtful, patient, curled up at the edges, a laugh that seems to set the world alight.

 

 

 

 

"Hey," Gary says one day. "Want to come here and watch?" 

Jamie blinks. "It's ten at night, Neville." 

"So?" 

"By the time I get there you'll have knocked right out." 

"I won't. Promise." 

It's kind of strangely hopeful the way Gary says it, and Jamie would be lying if he said that his eyes hadn't already flickered towards his shoes by the door. "All right." 

"Great. Here's my address." 

"Have it already." 

"What? Christ, you're such a stalker." 

"Talk to Scholes, he's the one who's been giving your address out willy-nilly." 

"I'm going to murder him." 

"Not if he murders you first."

There's no one on the road and Jamie coasts into Manchester just before eleven, crouched down for fear of someone recognising him and doing unspeakable things. Enemy fucking territory, this. He slides towards Gary's house like an intruder who had no right to be there and laughs at the imposing security gate.

"Where d'you think you live, Neville, Liverpool?" 

Gary buzzes him in with a good-natured  _ fuck you  _ and it isn't long before Jamie is stood in a Manc hallway, the first time he's ever been in a house here, Gary hovering nervously nearby trying to palm it off by offering beer. 

It's a nice place. It's a very  _ Gary  _ kind of place, muted whites and the flash of provocative red that accents various parts of the rooms. Jamie spots the United crest just above the door and feels a little queasy that he's got a matching one at home.

They take one end each on the sofa and stare resolutely at the telly, a Fluminense - Sport Recife tie that Jamie naturally knows everything about. He's halfway through ranting about how frustrating Henrique can be when Gary turns to him suddenly and mumbles, "sorry." 

This is starting to get awfully weird and Jamie isn't sure he likes it. First he's in a Manc's house and now the worst Manc in the world is apologising to him. He turns to check that Scholes isn't hiding behind him with an axe in his hands. 

"What for?" 

"Well. Disappearing. I don't know." Gary's cheeks are bright red and he's waving his hands around like he's not sure what to do with them, miscontrolling all of his words like United on the ball. "I mean. We always have these - moments, I don't know - like after Uruguay. The World Cup. I don't know. It was - nice, sitting with you in the room. Even if you're a Scouse twat and I can't understand you half the time. I don't know. Nice to listen to you talk. Then we lost to Portugal and I hugged you and you weren't there that night and I thought I'd done something wrong. Which is why. I don't know. I kinda brushed past you. And then you called and I thought, I don't - " 

"Gary," Jamie says patiently, "if you say 'I don't know' one more time I am going to punch you in the face." 

Gary flushes harder and twiddles his thumbs. It's kind of cute.

Jamie decides  _ right, then  _ and leans over and kisses him.

By virtue of the sofa being unfortunately wide he topples and slightly misses the mark, his lips ending up on the corner of Gary's mouth instead. Gary coughs out a nervous giggle and tilts his head to meet Jamie's, deepening it into a proper kiss. It's fumbling, sloppy, perfect in every way. Gary pushes forward a surprising amount of earnestness such that Jamie's arms give way and he falls back and Gary's lying awkwardly on top of him, his nose buried in Jamie's cheek. In the background Cícero has just scored and Jamie can hear the Fluminense supporters screaming.

"You have a big fucking nose," he mumbles, laughing. 

Gary peels himself off just enough to smack him. "You're a real fucking ungrateful bastard, you know that?" 

 

 

 

 

Later - and Jamie won't specify what kind of later, except he now knows that a set of class of '92 kits framed in a bedroom can be  _ very  _ off-putting - Gary turns his right wrist face-up and shows Jamie the words. 

"Nearly had a heart attack when I saw that," he says. "Knew it was going to be one of you scummy bastards." 

Jamie flips his arm over to show Gary. "Stevie didn't stop laughing for an hour." 

"Nothing compared to Scholesy," Gary mutters darkly. The premise is daunting.

"So you believe in this shit, then?" 

"I dunno. Seems to have worked out all right." Gary snorts and shakes his head. "Being mates with me wouldn't have even crossed your mind without them words, would it?" 

"Not in a million years." Jamie combs Gary's hair back from his face almost fondly. "You'd just be another of them absolute twats." 

"Speak for yourself." 

"Anyway. I think we're more than mates now, eh?" 

Gary shudders. "Does this mean we're  _ dating _ ? Fucking hell. I don't know how the lads are going to take this."

"Honestly, at this point I think they'll just be glad we're past the whole will-they-won't-they stage to care." Jamie scrunches his face up and eyeballs Gary. "This doesn't mean I'm ever forgiving your Mancness or your club, mind. I'm still going to destroy youse the next derby." 

"Bring it," Gary says so smugly that Jamie almost wants to follow up with that promise of punching him. "We'll drop you faster than you drop out of the Champions' League spots." 

There's only one way to wipe that annoying smirk off the Manc's face and Jamie clatters into him, knocks his shoulder over and pins him down on the bed. He's laughing and Gary's laughing and it's all a bit saccharine for thirty-year-olds, but sod it, it's his romantic comedy and he'll put two grumpy old bastards in the lead if he wants to. "We'll see about that," he tries for a vaguely seductive growl that only sets Gary off in an even worse fit of cackling. 

"Ahh, that famous Carragher pulling technique. You were completely barren before you met me, weren't you?" 

"If you don't stop being rude, Neville, United are going to get a call tomorrow explaining why their Captain isn't recovering as well as previously hoped." 

"Ooh, the mysterious assailant with the Scouse accent. I wonder who it could be." 

"Shut up and let me kiss you, old man." 

 

 

 

 

Gary, it turns out, doesn't recover as well either way. He gets a standing ovation on his first game back - Jamie watches with some strange kind of mix of pride and natural anti-Manc sentiment - but then tweaks his groin in a reserve match. Jamie texts him  _ swear that wasn't my fault  _ and a winky face, gets nothing back.

The derby comes and goes. Jamie sees him in the stands, once, but Liverpool win this time and Gary vanishes while Jamie buries his head into Stevie's shoulder.

It's something they have to learn to live with. Jamie figures out, slowly, to sense when Gary's up for banter after a loss and when he isn't, and Gary learns the same. It's a soft kind of dance, not the quickness and naturalness of Stevie-and-Xabi or Posh-and-Becks, but Jamie thinks that makes it all the more worth it. He and Gary have always fought for what they wanted. They won't stop now.

 

 

 

 

They're sat in Jamie's living room, Gary very consciously turned away from the Liverpool crest, England up against Belarus thanks to Stevie's goal. Jamie's just texting Stevie  _ that was crap  _ for him to see later when a thought suddenly occurs to him. "Love you," he says, offhand, still texting.

Gary stares. "Are you talking to  _ Steve _ ?"

"No, you twat, I'm talking to you." 

"Oh." 

Jamie looks up then and catches the most satisfying of blushes cross Gary's face. "Loved you for ages," he says cheerfully, fully intent on making Gary feel as uncomfortable as possible. 

"When?" 

"I dunno. When you was shaking hands with the Portugal players. Struck me then you weren't all bad." 

Gary grins, slightly mortified. "Thanks."

"I hope you love me too," Jamie says, squinting. Gary looks like he wants to die. It's more entertaining than England.

"Maybe." 

"When?"

"Algeria - Burkina Faso. It was so boring I thought you were great by comparison." 

Molosh lets loose a strike and Gary turns back to the telly, cursing. Jamie laughs and presses a kiss to his forehead. 

"I'm glad you're here," he says with an inexcusable amount of affection for a Manc. 

In the background England sings on. There is a story, about dragons.

 

 

 

 

Old Trafford roars loud in his ears as they welcome their captain home.  _ Gary Neville is a red, is a red.  _ It winds Jamie up immensely and for no reason at all, and he thrums with annoyance as he walks out the tunnel. The little comfort he takes in knowing that Gary doesn't hate  _ all  _ Scousers is soon replaced by that familiar, seething dislike built into his skin.

The Mancs walk past them, hands stuck out in the most perfunctory of gestures. Gary, of course, is in front, and Gary, of course, stares them all down with a withering glare that promises death and destruction. He doesn't soften when he comes face to face with Jamie, and Jamie stares straight back. 

_ Manc wanker _ , he thinks, watches a split second of tenderness flash across Gary's face, gone before anyone else would have seen.

_ Scouse twat. _

He grins, holds Gary's hand a touch longer than he needs to. 

And then Gary's off, waving his offside arm in the air, and Jamie's jogging towards his own goal, both sets of fans baying for blood and both sets of players ready to give it to them. Afterwards is a different matter entirely, but for the next two hours Gary becomes Neville and all Mancs are scum. Howling and jeering and crunching tackle; his realm, what he was born for. He takes a breath. Drops his head. The whistle goes.  
  


 

 

**Author's Note:**

> \- I'm not entirely sure if they'd have met in the reserves because they do come up a few years apart but LET'S PRETEND  
> \- Carra's derby debut was a 2-0 loss at Old Trafford - [of course he got carded](https://www.11v11.com/matches/manchester-united-v-liverpool-24-september-1998-23767/)  
> \- [United 2-1 Liverpool 09.11.03](https://www.11v11.com/matches/liverpool-v-manchester-united-09-november-2003-17928/)  
> \- [Denmark 3-2 England 16.11.03](http://englandstats.com/matches.php?mid=809) (predictable). Jamie isn't listed but shhhh  
> \- Jamie says in his book he doesn't sing the anthem for Northern pride reasons and Gary is (in)famous for not singing it  
> \- Stevie becomes Captain in 2003  
> \- [Portugal 2-2 (6-5) England](https://www.theguardian.com/football/2004/jun/24/minutebyminute.sport); I dunno why [this struck me](http://media.gettyimages.com/photos/portugal-england-captain-david-beckham-and-his-teammates-salute-fans-picture-id50994374), Gaz standing alone to the side. I dunno if Gaz hugged Stevie but it's based on [this v sweet picture](http://media.gettyimages.com/photos/englands-steven-gerrard-and-gary-neville-at-the-end-of-the-game-picture-id662077508?s=612x612).  
> \- [United 2-1 Liverpool](https://www.11v11.com/matches/manchester-united-v-liverpool-20-september-2004-25681/): Gaz was out injured, I think? But shhh  
> \- Some scousers actually tried to turn Gaz's car over I find that hilarious and slightly frightening  
> \- [Algeria - Burkina Faso](http://int.soccerway.com/matches/2006/02/28/world/friendlies/algeria/burkina-faso/361546/?ICID=HP_MS_02_01) is played on the eve of the Uruguay-England game and what do you mean I take things too seriously  
> \- [England 2-1 Uruguay](https://www.theguardian.com/football/2006/mar/01/minutebyminute.sport); played at Anfield because Wembley was under reno  
> \- Apparently people threw hamburgers at Gaz the previous derby??? idek  
> \- Carra's own goal record is unbelievable :')))  
> \- [England 1-0 Paraguay](https://www.theguardian.com/football/worldcup2006/minbymin/0,,1788073,00.html)  
> \- [Gary's injury during training](http://news.bbc.co.uk/sport1/hi/football/world_cup_2006/teams/england/5096778.stm) \- Jamie was drafted in to replace him  
> \- [England 2-0 Trinidad & Tobago](https://www.theguardian.com/football/worldcup2006/minbymin/0,,1788265,00.html)  
> \- [England 2-2 Sweden](https://www.theguardian.com/football/worldcup2006/minbymin/0,,1788366,00.html)  
> \- Them sat on the bench against Ecuador produced [this wondrous beauty](https://images.apester.com/images%2F8e%2F8ed3dc4019d043409be2cf72a5e15719.jpg)  
> \- [England 1-0 Ecuador](https://www.theguardian.com/football/2006/jun/26/worldcup2006.match2)  
> \- [England 0-0 (1-3) Portugal \- ](https://www.theguardian.com/football/worldcup2006/minbymin/0,,1788437,00.html)[Penalty rules](https://www.fifa.com/mm/document/afdeveloping/refereeing/law_14_the_penalty_kick_en_47369.pdf) ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
> \- [Steebgaz](https://68.media.tumblr.com/07d15d689270badc468a1d35aaf891d7/tumblr_inline_os0pm04OZ31r6eykw_540.jpg) after the shootout  
> \- Gary has [such a big heart](http://www.mirror.co.uk/news/uk-news/how-to-tackle-losing-634981)  
> \- [England 1-1 Brazil](http://englandstats.com/matches.php?mid=852)  
> \- Old Wembley had [39 steps](http://www.wembleystadium.com/Press/Presspack/Stats-and-Facts) to the royal box  
> \- [United 1-0 Liverpool 16.12.07](https://www.11v11.com/matches/liverpool-v-manchester-united-16-december-2007-279723/)  
> \- [Gary in crutches ;-;](https://s3-eu-west-1.amazonaws.com/mediarush-o29-l16/pictures/2013/3/16/1831702/preview.jpg?1363422995) He was out for a year after damaging his ankle against Bolton.  
> \- Paddy Crerand does MUTV a lot  
> \- [England 3-1 Belarus](http://englandstats.com/matches.php?mid=869)  
> \- [United 2-1 Liverpool](https://www.11v11.com/matches/manchester-united-v-liverpool-21-march-2010-287324/) \- this is the famous one where they yell at each other :>  
> \- Soulmate mechanics: everyone gets their first words on the wrist, you kinda feel it when they say it, and you only feel like injuries if you're, idk, close by or watching, it's VERY VAGUE i apologise  
> \- Title from the last Smiths' album; I kinda really liked 'Last Night I Dreamt That Somebody Loved Me' but it was v long  
> \- Everything I know about the art of writing matches I learnt from Duncan Hamilton.  
> \- sorry for neglecting carraville since april dsjfkls i hope this makes up for it; as always thank you for reading and commenting <3


End file.
